


Driven by a Devil's Hunger

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Garage Tapes [14]
Category: Gotham City Garage (Comics)
Genre: Gen, you can't run from Scarecrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 08:57:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: “They say the Devil always collects his due,” it muses, inspecting its manicured nails. “But I’m not the Devil.” It drops its hand, spreads its arms. “I’m so much worse.”





	Driven by a Devil's Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Delta Rae’s ‘Bottom of the River’.

Tommy Marx stumbles to his knees, dirty palms flat against the cracked earth. He’s struggling to get enough air into his lungs and he can’t get up; his knees are too weak and his feet are too heavy to run anyway.

Maybe...maybe he got away. Maybe.

He sucks in hot, spiky air that turns his mouth to cotton and doesn’t seem to reach his lungs and watches sweat fall off his face and vanish into the dirt below him.

Freezing fingers suddenly grasp his chin and hoist him upright, squeezing into his bones and threatening to pop his teeth out of his gums.

“I told you there was no use in running,” the thing says, glasses shining in the sun, not even a little pink despite the sun, despite the ankle-length leather coat it wears. “And yet...you did it anyway.”

Tommy struggles, as much as his screaming muscles will allow, and the thing suddenly hurls him back into the dust with a spasm of its chilly fingers.

“They say the Devil always collects his due,” it muses, inspecting its manicured nails. “But I’m not the Devil.” It drops its hand, spreads its arms.  ** _“I’m so much worse.”_ **

“Please--”

** _“NO!”_ ** It breathes deeply and comes forward, coat flaring in a nonexistent breeze. Tommy crawls backwards, fingers scrabbling for a rock, loose dirt, anything. “You owe me,” it continues, “don’t you, Tommy? You remember?” Its voice warps and cracks before evening into a perfect mimicry of his own.  _ “Oh, please, I’ll get someone else for you, someone good, I promise!” _

“I haven’t--”

“Bothered.” It brushes imaginary dust off its coat. “You haven’t bothered, Tommy. Which means you’ll have to do.”

He finds a rock, throws at the not-a-teenager. The thing steps to the side and tilts its head to investigate the fallen projectile.

“Really.”

“I’m not worth it,” he tries, crawling faster. “I’m not worth it, just give me some time--”

“Oh, now.” The glasses vanish into the coat, and the coat comes off, gets folded gently into a small square and lain aside. “Now, now, Tommy, you’re  _ terrified _ . Don’t try to calm down on my account.”

“Please,” he begs. The thing rolls up white shirtsleeves, revealing green, gently rustling kudzu on one arm. “Please-- _ Jonathan _ \--”

Then it’s on him, one cold hand ripping his head back by the hair and the other squeezing his throat.

** _“Jonathan Crane isn’t here right now,”_ ** it snarls.  ** _“But if you’d like to make an appointment, well, just come by any old time!”_ **

“No-no- _ please _ \--please, no--!”

The thing smiles benignly. Lets go of him, and stands up.

And then the crows descend in a black, screaming, cloud.

THE END


End file.
